Burnout (NYPD Blue & Gold) (3 page)

She watched his perfectly formed butt as it disappeared through the door. Mike was gone, but his presence and the effect he had on her lingered. Her libido might as well be groaning. When she turned back to the counter, Rose fixed her with laughing hazel eyes.

“
That
was Mike,” Rose said.

“Apparently so.” Cassie let out an embarrassed laugh. She felt like a teenager with a crush on the high school quarterback.

“Mike is Hopewell Spring’s—”

An angry shout with a heavy French accent pierced the air.

“Not again.” Rose rolled her eyes. “I’ll give you a few more minutes to decide what you want.” She pivoted and rushed into the kitchen.

From her stool Cassie had the best seat in the house to watch a large man in classic white chef’s garb gesturing and shouting at the kitchen staff, using what Cassie knew from her limited knowledge of the French language to be curse words. Nasty, degrading ones at that.

Tuning out the rude berating, she scanned the menu, but surprisingly, there was only standard diner fare. She’d expected a more interesting variety based upon the ambience someone had so obviously strived to achieve with both the interior and exterior decor.

A simple fried egg and cheese sandwich would hit the spot. While she waited for her order to be taken, that same French voice shouted loudly enough for everyone in the café to hear. Back in the kitchen, the Frenchman towered over Rose, reminding Cassie of far too many cops she’d worked with over the years who’d tried to intimidate her by sheer size alone. She’d always chalked it up to
them
secretly being intimidated by
her
, but it still pissed her off to see it happen to someone else.

“That is too damned bad, Madame,” the Frenchman shouted in a heavy accent. “I cannot work with such inferior staff. Either you fire them, or I quit. The choice is yours.” He lifted his chin and aimed haughty stares at each of the young kitchen staff, as if Rose’s decision was a foregone conclusion.

“You can’t quit.” Rose’s voice rose. “You signed a contract and I have a restaurant full of people. We’re in the middle of service.”

The entire restaurant went silent, like someone turned off the
talk
switch. Every patron turned his or her attention to the kitchen. Some rose from their seats to watch the show. Or to step in, perhaps, if things got too rough on Rose. The kitchen staff, which looked like it consisted of two other chefs and a kid washing dishes, abandoned their tasks to witness the heated confrontation. Even the three waitresses froze with their mouths open, balancing plates of food on their hands.

The Frenchman looked down his nose at Rose. “Without the proper staff, I consider my contract to be null and void.” His blatant attempt at intimidation was lost on the petite woman who parked both her fists on her slim hips.

“Mr. Pierre,” she growled, “I’ve had enough of your pompous whining. Since the day I hired you, you’ve berated every one of my hardworking staff and you’ve tried to do it to me, too. I tolerated your piss-poor attitude because you trained at some fancy culinary school in Paris. But I must say, your talents in the kitchen have been disappointing.”

Mr. Pierre opened his pudgy mouth to speak, but she cut him off with a shimmering painted fingernail aimed at his face. Cassie could swear lightning bolts radiated from the woman’s short, spiky hair. Rose was a good five inches shorter than Mr. Pierre and probably weighed close to two hundred pounds less, but with her powerhouse personality, she more than made up for it.

“I paid you good money for your high and mighty résumé,” Rose continued, “but it’s hardly been worth it. This menu sucks.” She grabbed a nearby menu and threw it onto the floor of the kitchen. “Business never took off like you assured me it would. For this time of day, my restaurant should be packed wall to wall, people lined up on the sidewalk, and it’s not. And you know why? It’s your damned cooking. So you can’t quit, Mon Sewer Pierre, because you’re fired! Get out of my kitchen. Now!”

With a French-accented huff and a snort, Mon Sewer Pierre yanked his chef’s cap from his head, threw it to the floor, and stormed out the back door of the kitchen.

For a long moment, nobody in the restaurant said a word. Then one of the sous-chefs clapped. The other chef chimed in, grinning, followed by the kid who’d been washing dishes, then some of the patrons. Waitresses put down their trays and applauded loudly, followed by every customer in the café. The sound was deafening, and Cassie couldn’t help but join in. One of the waitresses, a plump woman with her hair in a bun, put her fingers into her mouth and whistled. Obviously, Mr. Pierre was not a town favorite.

Rose massaged her temples for a few moments, then came out from the kitchen and stood in the center aisle between the tables and the booths. “Ladies and gentlemen,” she addressed the customers in a calm voice, “I apologize for the disturbance and for any delay this will cause you in being served. We’ll try to accommodate everyone as quickly as possible. Coffee’s on the house this morning.”

“No problem, Rosie,” a customer shouted from the other end of the counter. “We never thought the Frenchie’s cooking was that great anyway.” Snickers and laughs erupted from every corner of the restaurant.

“Dear God,” Rose murmured. “What have I done?”

“Oh, honey,” the plump waitress said, placing her hand on Rose’s shoulder, “we’ll all pitch in until you can get another chef.”

Cassie looked around the restaurant. Half the customers were still waiting for their meals. Rose certainly did need another chef and she needed one now.

“Maybe I can help,” Cassie heard herself say.

Rose turned to her. “How?”

“I can cook.”

“Ever work in a restaurant?”

“No.”

“Then what makes you think you can take over a head chef position?” Rose eyed her with unconcealed doubt but cocked her head, as if curious about her qualifications.

Here goes.

Cassie took a deep breath. “I graduated from the Culinary Institute of America. I never worked at a restaurant, but I’ve cooked for hundreds at upscale charity events.” Police Benevolent Association fund-raisers, truth be told. “And I grew up cooking for my entire family. Other than that, I’m just a gourmet chef wannabe with a lot of experience on the experimental side.”
And nothing but time on my hands.
For a little while, anyway.

Rose pursed her rouge-colored lips. “Experimental?”

“I like to use local fresh ingredients and put my own spin on the classics.”

“We could certainly use a fresh spin on things. And”—Rose nodded to the kitchen—“I’m desperate.” She assessed Cassie from head to toe. “Hop in back, get yourself an apron, and whip me up something gourmet and ‘experimental’ for breakfast. Then we’ll talk.”

Cassie couldn’t contain her smile. She jumped off the stool and headed around the counter to the kitchen, chewing the inside of her lip.

What have I gotten myself into? A hit man is after me and I’m auditioning for a temp job as Chef Boyardee.

Then again, she was more excited about something than she’d been in years. Her last thought before entering the kitchen was that Raven would probably be cool enough in the Trail Blazer, but she hoped the dog wouldn’t get bored and tear up the inside of the SUV. Lt. Frye would not be pleased.

“Chuck,” Rose shouted through the kitchen opening, “get— What’s your name?”

“Cassie. Cassie Younger.” The fictitious name she’d used years ago rolled off her lips so easily it was like she’d walked away from that undercover burglary gig only yesterday.

“Get Cassie an apron, show her where everything is, then stand back.”

There were no other introductions to the kitchen staff other than Chuck, who eyed her with limited hostility. Cassie guessed he expected to be promoted to head chef after Mr. Pierre’s untimely departure.

Ignoring Chuck’s tamped-down irritation, she quickly familiarized herself with what ingredients were available and where all the kitchen tools were. Within minutes, everything fell into place. Her body came alive. Just looking at the shiny stainless-steel commercial stoves and ovens was enough to get her juices flowing. It was as if she was born to work here. She briefly wondered what to make for Rose, then an idea crystallized.

She snooped around in the bread baskets and found some challah, which she sliced thickly. After whisking together a decadent custard flavored with vanilla, fresh orange juice, and grated orange peel, she added a splash of Grand Marnier. She dipped the bread slices into the custard and placed them on a baking sheet. After a light sprinkling of coarse natural sugar on top, she baked the bread slices until they were puffed and golden and the sugar grains glistened. A light tapping of confectioner’s sugar, a few thin slices of orange, and a sprig of mint. Ready for Rose’s judgment.

Within twenty minutes of setting foot in the kitchen, Cassie placed a platter on the counter before Rose. Next to it, she plunked down a metal pitcher of warm syrup. The heady scents of vanilla, orange, and freshly baked egg bread suffused the air.

“What is it?” Rose looked from the plate to Cassie.

“It’s my take on orange crème brûlée French toast, Mr. Pierre notwithstanding.” Cassie smiled at her crack on the arrogant Frenchman. “Try it with some warm maple syrup.”

Rose leaned her face closer to the plate and inhaled. “Smells good,” she murmured, then poured a hefty amount of syrup on top. She cut off a piece of toast, swirled it into the syrup, and was about to pop it into her mouth when Cassie interrupted.

“It would be better made from brioche and drizzled with cane syrup,” Cassie said, then bit her lower lip. “But I didn’t have time to bake my own bread, and I could only find maple syrup.”

Rose paused with a bite of puffy toast dripping syrup onto her plate. “Are you going to let me eat this?”

Cassie clammed up, as did everyone else in the restaurant. When Rose put the first bite into her mouth and began chewing, Cassie held her breath. Rose’s assessment of her cooking suddenly meant more to her than busting bad guys every day. All eyes in the place were on Rose, waiting for her edict as if the fate of the entire town rested on the outcome.

Moments later, Rose opened her eyes, cut off another bite, and ate it at a painstakingly slow pace. Cassie imagined Rose’s palate was dissecting her dish, deciphering every ingredient, and the wait was killing her. Again, Cassie bit her lower lip, something she rarely did. By her count, she’d done it at least twice in the last five minutes.

Rose swallowed, tilted her head, and a great big smile lit her ruby lips. “This is incredible! When can you start?”

Cassie exhaled the breath she’d been holding. Cheers and hoots filled the air as waitresses and patrons clapped. A few of them stood to pat Cassie on the back.

“Atta girl, honey.” The plump waitress with her hair in a bun winked at her. “I’m Sue and that’s Ginny.” Sue pointed to another waitress, a slim woman about twenty years old, with dark shoulder-length hair and freckles. Ginny smiled at Cassie from across the dining room where she tended to a table by the window.

“Welcome to The Raven’s Nest, or, the Nest, as we call it.” Sue extended her hand and Cassie shook it. “Rose used to be a hard-nosed Wall Street broker and she’s one tough customer to please. You’ll do great.”

The pure joy on Rose’s face filled Cassie with happiness, something her job with the NYPD hadn’t done in a long, long time. Well, if she had to be on the lam hiding out from a hit man, what better way to spend the time than doing what she loved most—cooking!

At the end of the day, Cassie was exhausted but exhilarated. She could see it on the Food Network: Cassie Yates—The Gourmet Detective.

She kicked back on a plush yellow couch and rested her achy feet on the oak coffee table. Like the rest of Hopewell Springs, the hundred-year-old, fully furnished colonial Rose had arranged for her to rent was quaint and adorable.

Cassie mused over the stark contrast between the happy, welcoming warmth of Hopewell Springs and the cold, dark ugliness she’d left behind in New York City. But it was more than that. She no longer craved the excitement of the NYPD, the all-consuming adrenaline rush of busting sleazy bad guys on a daily basis. For the first time since she’d received her badge, she was filled with a newfound sense of purpose that had nothing to do with the shiny badge in her pocket.

When she’d walked up the red brick path leading to the house’s freshly painted front porch, she’d felt like she was coming home. Dark green shutters graced the yellow exterior. Sweet-smelling rows of rose bushes delineated both adjacent property lines. The quiet road was dotted with similar houses on either side and across the street, also painted in vibrant colors.

As if giving her own approval of their new home, Raven circled three times before lying down on the large blue floral rug that covered most of the living room floor, then let out a contented sigh. As did Cassie. After a full day standing in front of a stove, her feet were killing her, but it was a good pain.

The memory of Mike’s large, strong hand gripping his cup of coffee flashed in her head. She’d bet he gave a kick-ass foot massage. Her belly fluttered as she remembered the hot way he’d looked at her. When he’d left the Nest, she assumed she would never see him again, but now…running into each other was a certainty.

But no matter how happy she was for the moment in Hopewell Springs, letting down her guard would never be an option. She was still an NYPD detective, and nailing whoever was trying to put her six feet under took priority over culinary bliss.

Cassie pulled her cell phone from the handbag lying beside her and dialed her partner’s number. Didn’t take a rocket scientist to tell he was pissed.

“Save me the heartburn and check in on time, will ya?” Dom stated, rather than asked.

“Okay, sorry. I tried calling you from the road, but there’s a dead zone on most of the Thruway north of Albany.” She hesitated. “Then I was busy, uh, working.”

A moment of silence. “Working?”

Cassie twisted a lock of hair around one of her fingers as she told Dom about her new job, intentionally leaving out details about exactly where she was working and staying. The last thing she wanted was for Gray and Dom to hightail it upstate and drag her back into protective custody. Eventually, she’d have to tell them, but for now she wanted to stay lost. Even to them.